The Violet Proposition
by channelingadler
Summary: Based on "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches." Violet Hunter requests Sherlock's opinion on a job proposition, but something isn't quite right. Together they uncover a peculiar secret about Violet's employer, leading to a spark that neither one of them can deny. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

The doorbell cut through the silence of the flat. John Watson raised his head slightly, a kink forming at the base of his neck from his prolonged attention to the computer screen. He waited a moment, seeing if his flatmate would emerge from his bedroom, a place he'd been occupying for the last few days.

The bell rang a second time, and as John got up he heard shuffling from the end of the hallway. He shook his head and put the laptop down on the table when Sherlock Holmes strode into the parlor, giving off a nervous energy.

"A client, John!" He exclaimed. Instead of going towards the door, Sherlock settled himself on his favorite chair and poured himself a cup of tea from John's pot.

"Very well," John mumbled while on his way to let in their visitor.

John opened the door to a young lady, he placed her mid-twenties, with dark hair pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She was dressed very primly, with large dark-rimmed glasses framing chestnut eyes. Her face was tanned and kind, if slightly plain, and she held a large leather tote with both her hands. She spoke first.

"I was hoping for an audience with Sherlock Holmes?" Her voice was level and very polite.

"Of course," John replied, extending his hand. "I'm John Watson, Sherlock's colleague, I'll take you up to him."

The lady took his hand and smiled earnestly. "Violet Hunter."

John led Violet up the stairs into their flat, where Sherlock waited with a bored look on his face. Violet entered, not waiting for John to introduce her, and extended her hand to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes," she began in the same polite tone, "my name is Violet Hunter and I've come for your opinion on a matter very dear to me."

Sherlock looked at her hand for a few moments, and just when she began to pull it back, he took it and shook it lightly.

"I'm afraid if it's advice you're seeking, Miss Hunter, then your request would have been better addressed to a newspaper column."

Violet took a seat across from Sherlock, a tight smile on her lips. John was amused. He sat back and began taking notes of this appointment for his blog.

"If it wasn't a matter of such urgency, I should agree."

"You seem like an intelligent woman, I'm sure you heard that John and I take inquires through the website."

"Of course, as you should. However, Mr. Holmes, I believe if I asked for your opinion through an e-mail you would simply reject it, and I hoped to have a better chance in person. If you're going to kick me out, I hope you do so immediately, because I understand you're quite busy and once I get started this should not take too much time. And I would hope that once you hear me out, you would be so gracious as to simply give me your straightforward opinion, even if it be without explanation, and I will pay you promptly for the inconvenience and simply be on my way."

Sherlock shot a glance to John who met it and simply shrugged. Violet looked between the both of them, waiting for Sherlock's approval to continue.

"Very well, I have a few minutes, what is this 'urgent' matter then? Trouble with a boyfriend?"

For the first time since her arrival, Violet broke her formal appearance and chuckled softly.

"Hardly. Mr. Holmes—"

"Sherlock."

"Very well, Sherlock. As I'm sure you've deduced with that penetrating stare: I'm a nanny. I've worked with the same family for eight years which began back in my home of Rhode Island, in the United States, and extended into their move here to London. They're very lovely and I was quite happy with them, except now they've moved back to the States. Since the children are already quite grown and I have really come to love London, I decided to stay and find another family. Unfortunately, times are quite difficult, and it seems as though families aren't investing in full-time nannies, especially when they are unfamiliar with their background."

"An opportunity, I would think, to move your career outside of babysitting."

Violet's eyes widened slightly and she nodded with a sad smile. She shuffled through her tote and removed a few pieces of paper which she held tightly in her hand.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do love what I do, Sherlock. And I hope to stay in my current career for as long as I can. There are recruitment offices for nannies, which I applied to since it was too difficult for me to find the right family on my own. The recruitment office hasn't been as fruitful as I would have liked, but they did just give me this opportunity here." She handed the paper to him and he took it, gingerly.

"I interviewed with this man. He was very pleasant, and apparently very particular in his requirements. Once I walked into the office he told the recruiter that I was the one."

"It seems the pay is very generous," Sherlock observed as he read through the paper.

"Yes. And for only one child. The issue is, in order to take the position I would be required to wear a very specific uniform of his choosing and that I absolutely had to..."

"Cut your hair. It says it here. What exactly is the problem, Miss Hunter? Vanity?"

Violet's back straightened and her politeness gave way to an edge. "I won't deny that I like my hair. And the only reason he had for me cutting it was that his wife demanded it. The cut is really very severe. To be honest, vanity aside, all these peculiar contingencies coupled with the exorbitant pay struck me as odd, and I was hoping you could give me your opinion on it. This job is very intimate, I would be living with the family after all, and I really don't want to end up in a dangerous situation."

"What makes you think it could be dangerous?" Sherlock drawled, doing his best to sound bored, but John could see his interest pique.

"I...I don't know exactly. I guess it's just a gut feeling. But I need work, desperately. If I turn this down I would probably have to leave London. Sherlock," her voice was earnest and almost pleading, "I've heard of your reputation and I'm consulting you because I have no one else and based on what I've heard your voice has proven to be one of reason. Based on the information here, do you think I should take this job?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and kept his eyes locked on hers. Even under such intense scrutiny, she did not look away. He knew she was being honest and could understand her concern. Although convoluted to others, the bits of data she had provided did begin to paint an unusual situation. One that if not dangerous, was at least unconventional. John broke their silence.

"Surely if you feel uncomfortable you should decline, I'm sure you could get something else—"

"Nothing that pays this well on such short notice. And you are what, Miss Hunter, a week away from being evicted from your flat?"

Violet inhaled sharply and nodded. "If it isn't this job, I would have barely enough to cover a ticket back home."

"Take the job." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. Violet looked at him for a beat and then took her wallet from her tote.

"Thank you. You didn't list rates on your website?"

Sherlock leaned in and plucked the wallet from her hands. He slid out a receipt from inside one of the folds and scribbled something quickly. Sherlock placed the paper back into the wallet, and handed it back to Violet.

"If you fall into trouble, call me immediately. Good luck and congratulations on your new job, Miss Hunter."

"Violet." She smiled as she took back her wallet. "I appreciate your time, thank you."

She gathered her things and said goodbye to John as she let herself out the door and down to the street.

"You really think she should take it? It didn't sound bizarre to you?" John clicked his laptop closed while reclaiming his favorite chair.

"We will be hearing from her again, John. And when we do...the game is on!"


	2. Chapter 2

The departure of Violet Hunter from 221B was almost a month past. John did not know of any correspondence that reached their flat from the girl, and with two gripping cases having occupied most of their time, he almost forgot about her altogether. It wasn't until he noticed a quiet, frequently-texting, Sherlock-sized lump on the couch that an image of the prim nanny floated into his mind.

"Is that a case, Sherlock?" John asked innocently. He had only seen the detective so chatty once before, and that was during his case involving The Woman.

"Developing into one," Sherlock answered absentmindedly, fingers clicking away at the keys of his mobile.

"Have you ever heard back from that Violet girl? Seems it all worked out then, yes?"

Sherlock raised his head and held John's gaze for a beat, before dropping his attention back to the phone's screen.

"You know she's the one I'm texting, John. You are much too obvious."

John smiled and nodded, plucking the paper off his tray and settling in for the morning.

"Is she in dire trouble then? Or have the two of you become good friends?"

Sherlock sighed, sent out his last text and threw his phone down on the couch. "Violet has been keeping me updated with a few oddities of her new employment, but since no harm has fallen on her directly, it is still too soon for me to intervene." Sherlock paced to the mantle and picked up his skull, admiring it, and to John's surprise, continuing the conversation. "I will say, the girl is quite clever. If it were any other _nanny_ they would have ignored all the signs...but she's quick to see the important details. Will make this more interesting. I'm glad this case came to my attention, John, it proves to be a satisfying one."

"And what is the _case_, exactly? Governess gossip?" John quipped, the sarcasm lost on Sherlock.

"There is something hidden in that house, John. There is a game afoot and our Ms. Hunter is stuck directly in the center."

"_Our_ Ms. Hunter, now, is it? You know, considering how icy you were to the poor girl when she came here I'm surprised she's even kept in touch with you."

"You don't understand, John." Sherlock sat down, shaking his head. "Her updates are invaluable to unraveling this case—well, when it becomes a case. Soon, very soon!—So, naturally, I encourage her. Right now she's the only eyes I have in that house, and since her employer is completely oblivious to her suspicion the information is priceless."

"And what exactly has been happening, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when his mobile chirped. He scooped it off the couch and John could swear he saw Sherlock's face fall just a fraction. Sherlock pocketed the phone and went to his coat, their conversation forgotten.

"Lestrade, John. Seems there's something he wants us to look at. Are you coming?"

John groaned, estimating how many times he could call in sick before he'd get the boot. Once he decided on joining, he looked around to see Sherlock had already gone. Shrugging, he opened the paper once more.

"Do take your time, will you?" Sherlock's head snapped through the door and caused John to jump. Scrambling to get his coat, he followed the dark wool coattails of his flatmate out into the open air.

Violet Hunter awoke violently from her sleep, covering her mouth to muffle the gasp that exploded from her lungs. She grasped her sheets as she sat bolt upright in the darkness, the silence so palpable she wondered if she had lost her hearing. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking out the sound she'd heard many times before, always in the dead of night. Slowly her vision adjusted to the blackness and she could just make out the sparse, shabby furniture surrounding her.

The bedroom was small, but on nights like this it felt like a tomb. Dark, unfinished wood planks stretched out to meet stark plaster walls. The ceiling was vaulted, something that Violet knew was often desirable, but to her it only added awkwardness to the space. A tiny slit of a stationary window shed a thin strip of moonlight into the room, the illumination creating an ominous mood that only amplified the stuffiness she felt.

Violet inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the stale air, craning her neck in anticipation, waiting to hear the sound again. When nothing came she groped the bedside table to her right, eyes glued to the wall in front of her, until her hand found the phone.

_I heard it again. VH_

After pressing send, she laid back down onto the pillow, willing herself to relax. Sending the message was cathartic and she knew it was more for her sake than his. Mr. Holmes had insisted on her updating him with oddities in the event of a problem, and the action had given her a greater purpose to endure in the household beside her obvious employment. Although free to leave, she let her mind believe that she stayed out of a duty for a greater good—of uncovering some injustice—than just because she was plain broke.

The child she nannied was an absolute terror. Jeffrey was merely five, but his misbehavior had a sinister quality. Violet did not believe he was naughty out of ignorance, but rather that he was committed to it, with what she feared was malicious intent. One such example was him seeking out small animals or insects from their recesses outdoors in order to tease and torment them. When Violet tried to teach him that it was wrong, he would throw a tantrum unlike anything she'd ever seen. For the sake of the critters she stopped taking him outside altogether.

The irony was that the boy was the very picture of innocence: a chubby, soft little creature with dimpled pink cheeks and gorgeous blue eyes. His hair was smooth and side-swept and his dress was impeccable. However, somewhere inside his wide-toothed grin something lurked—something that often tempted Violet to give him a swift smack to the bottom.

If the boy was a disappointment, then his mother was completely alarming. Mrs. Rucastle was a tiny, rail-thin woman who described herself as a consultant, although never clarified of what. Violet assumed she was in her forties, but the woman clearly had a compulsion for cosmetic procedures. Her voice was low and soft, but her eyes were piercing. Completely oblivious of her demon seed, Mrs. Rucastle doted on the evil thing as if he were her prized possession. When in her presence, Mrs. Rucastle made it a point to undermine Violet in all regards, allowing any lessons she tried to instill on the boy go to waste with his mother's spoiling. The older woman was also unable to take criticism, so voicing any complaints or concerns Violet had about Jeffrey were completely discouraged.

The only somewhat pleasant member of the household was Mr. Rucastle: the man who had hired her. The opposite of his wife, Mr. Rucastle was tall, wide, and loud. His thick neck held a gigantic face that was always some shade of red. Mr. Rucastle laughed and joked incessantly, always asked Violet if she was content with her work, but held no interest in his child's welfare. Whenever Violet would ask him a question about the boy he would always brush it off with a simple, "That's a job for the missus!"

As Violet's eyes began to droop back into slumber, a strong vibration in her hands jolted her awake and she unlocked the screen of her mobile to get to the message.

_Any changes in behavior? SH_

_Wait...don't answer that. Go to sleep. SH_

Violet smiled. It had been three weeks since she was texting the strange consulting detective she had first seen on the telly. She had no idea what to make of him. She had first thought of him as very peculiar, then very arrogant, and then very handsome. She strummed her fingers across the screen, trying to find the right way to respond.

_Can't sleep. Yes, there was an event today. Unsettling. Difficult to text. VH_

She switched the vibration off her phone for fear of waking someone. Although considering the enormity of the house, the notion was laughable. When she first arrived at the Copper Beeches Estate, she was in awe of the place. What was once a historical mansion had been re-engineered into a marriage of new and old. Excitement blossomed as she saw the potential of a glamorous life—even as a nanny. Her previous employers were very comfortable financially, but their home was nothing compared to this. Two enormous wings flanked the center of the home which housed a cathedral-like sitting room and dining room. A library was also located in the center of the home, its double-doors centered underneath two massive curving staircases that led to either wing. The east wing was occupied by the family, their bedrooms nestled on the second floor. Her bedroom was on the third floor, the level was reserved mainly for guest rooms.

One (of the many) rules enforced in the Copper Beeches was that no member of staff, herself included, were allowed to access the west wing. It was even frowned upon to mount the stairwell that led to it. Very rarely did Violet see anyone come and go from that side of the house, although from her sliver of a window she did see that some rooms were illuminated.

Violet got up and made her way to the window again, peeking through to the other side of the home. There, directly across from her room, a duplicate of her tiny window reflected back at her. Inside what she suspected was the very same room, a flicker of light twinkled through the glass. The longer she stared, the louder her heart began to pound in her chest. A bright light shot out from inside her robe pocket, and she moved away from the glass as she read the message.

_Meet tomorrow, if possible. Will discuss how to move ahead. SH_

Violet slunk down the wall onto the floor as she re-read the text. _Dear God_, she thought. _What am I getting myself into?_


	3. Chapter 3

The air was crisp on this Saturday morning. Sherlock loosened his scarf, enjoying the cool air on his face as he rounded the street corner. He walked in long, loose strides with an air of confidence. He approached the door of the tiny pub and slipped in, noticing a million different details at once. For example, the front window was cracked, most likely by gravel from the road; they were serving coffee, but nothing for breakfast other than bagels or scones; the barkeep had called out sick again, a last minute replacement called in who stayed up much too late the night prior and—unfortunately for him—didn't even get a leg over.

Sherlock found a table in the back corner and sat, opening the menu he knew he wouldn't order from. A few minutes later the groggy waiter emerged with a welcoming, "Was'ya want?"

"Two coffees, black, cream and sugar on the side please." Sherlock closed the menu and kept his head down in order to avoid the odor emanating from the man's poor hygiene.

The man waddled out of sight to fetch the coffees and the small doorbell chimed acknowledging the arrival of another customer. It was Violet.

She was much changed from the last time Sherlock had seen her. He watched her walk stiffly to the table and amused himself by making deductions.

First, Violet was right, the haircut her employer insisted on was quite severe. Her long hair that once looped into a bun was now cut bluntly into a short bob that lined up with the bottom of her earlobes. A thick fringe helped frame the face from the dramatic cut, and although Sherlock thought the fringe quite suited her, he could read that she was very uncomfortable with it.

She had lost weight, close to five pounds, clearly the result of a hectic schedule and stress. The clothes she wore were plain, but neat. Her shoes made for comfort, but of high quality. She carried a bag with her and hung it on the back of the chair, nodding as she took the seat across from him.

"Good Morning, Violet. You look well."

She scoffed and shook her head while replying, "Liar."

They both shared a mutual understanding and if the air wasn't so tense they may have shared a laugh as well. The waiter returned with a tray of strong coffee, Violet thanked him as he walked away.

"I can't be too long," she said quickly as she took a sip of her black coffee. "I told them I'd gone to settle some paperwork for my visa. They are aware I'm alone here and I didn't want to raise suspicion."

"Clever girl," Sherlock responded. "Explain to me the event you mentioned last night."

Violet took another long sip of coffee, closing her eyes to savor it. Placing the cup down she began. "I've mentioned the noise I keep hearing? Mostly at night, but sometimes even during the day. It's inconsistent, sometimes resembling a thud or some kind of movement. Other times—"

"You mentioned before it sounded more like a wail."

Violet nodded. "Well, the only time I really hear it is if I'm in the library or in my room at night. I've decided that it must be coming from the west wing, the area Mr. Rucastle said was off limits. Sherlock, I think there's someone living in there."

Sherlock nodded, tore two packets of sugar and emptied them into his coffee. "Could be a mother-in-law, or a cat..."

Violet smiled at him. "You know it's not a cat, and you've never even stepped into that house."

"Point." Sherlock sipped his coffee as she continued.

"Well, yesterday Jeffrey was being particularly impossible so I took him down to the sitting room where Mrs. Bucastle was 'working.' I had hoped that by bringing him into his presence I would get a moment of peace, and it worked. She scooped him up and babied him while I went to tend to a couple chores. That's when I heard the thumping and my curiosity got the better of me."

Sherlock sighed, his tone matter-of-fact, "You went into the west wing."

Violet visibly cringed. "I couldn't help myself!"

"You know I highly advise against acquiring data that way. He caught you, didn't he?"

She was chewing on her bottom lip, giving away the answer. Sherlock arched his eyebrow in disapproval and she shrugged and took another sip of her cup.

"Explain."

"I got to the top of the stairs and saw a hallway identical to the one on the east wing. I just decided to take a quick walk-through, you know, make sure nothing was wrong. I got about halfway down the hall when one of the housekeepers came descended from the third floor. I rushed into a bedroom and closed the door so she wouldn't see me—"

"This housekeeper, what is her name?" Sherlock asked placidly.

"Mrs. Toller. I can't tell you much about her other than I hardly ever see her and she always has a sour expression on her face."

"Very well," Sherlock moved the conversation forward. "You rushed into the room..."

"Yes. And then I heard the noise again—the thumping—but this time it was coming from directly above me. It was hard to distinguish in the other part of the house but this time it sounded just like someone pacing."

"Ah, and I was so hoping my cat theory was correct."

"Not unless this cat walks on its hind legs."

"I did once know a rabbit that glowed in the dark."

Violet stared at him.

"You ran from the room?"

"Of course. I was frightened. So I opened the door, looked out for Mrs. Troller, and since I didn't see her, I walked out. I was just about to get to the stairs when Mr. Rucastle was coming up."

"Was he violent?"

Violet groaned in frustration. "That's the part that gets me. No, he wasn't. He was almost...comforting. He asked me what I was doing and if I understood that I was not allowed up there. I told him that I was sorry. He asked if I had seen anything. I told him no, that I was absent minded and had meant to go back to my room. Sherlock, he was _too_ nice, do you understand? His kindness was _unsettling_."

"You believe him to be angry then."

"I believe so, yes. Which leads me to the end bit. Since I've started there, at least weekly, Mr. Rucastle invites me to his library for a chat. Sometimes we're joined by Mrs. Rucastle, and they direct me to sit on the chaise directly in front of the window. Then, Mr. Rucastle asks me how I am and serves tea, all leading up to him divulging the most sensational stories you've ever heard.

"In the beginning I thought he was simply being cordial, trying to help establish a sort of relationship with me since I was new. But the other day, after a very funny story, I randomly looked out the window. Out on the street was a young man in his car, just staring at me. I turned to see if they had seen him and Mr. Rucastle immediately rushed me right out of the room without explanation."

Sherlock pondered this as Violet finished her coffee. "Do you think they knew the man?"

"Yes," Violet replied. "I feel like if they didn't they would have been more concerned as to what he was doing on their property. But they didn't seem curious about _why_ he was there, it was more like...they were upset that _I_ had seen him."

"Interesting." Sherlock fell into a deep thought as Violet slipped away and paid their tab. He was still unresponsive when she arrived at the table so she began to collect her things.

"Violet," Sherlock asked as she was about to step away. "Do you have family in America?"

Her eyes narrowed in confusion and she replied, "Yes. A few cousins, aunts, uncles..."

"No brothers?"

She shook her head slowly. "No, a lot of women in my family, actually. I have two male cousins, baby Preston and his older brother Jack."

"Very good, well, I look forward to hearing from you with more updates." Sherlock took his wallet out of his pocket and took out a couple notes. Violet smiled, plucked them out of his hand and handed them back to him.

"I got coffee, it's the least I can do. I'm sure by this time you've realized there's no way I could pay for your all your time with this situation."

"Ah, well, thank you. The pleasure is mine, really, do not think this as any form of charity."

"I'm not above it. But I thank you, anyway."

Violet smiled and held his gaze for a few moments before nodding and heading back towards the mysterious mansion in the country.


	4. Chapter 4

Her scream echoed off the walls of the vaulted room and escaped out through the crack in the door. The sound weaved down the stairs and evaporated into the sitting room, reverberating off the designer wallpaper. The scream would have caused a stir, a calling out, perhaps a shuffle up the stairs. But it produced nothing, because there was no one else in the house to hear it.

Violet's left hand hovered at her lips, shaking. Her eyes bore into the object at the bottom of the dusty drawer, unable to look away, both terrified and fascinated. After a few moments her curiosity caused her right hand to reach toward it and grab it by the end—gingerly; gently.

She brought it to the vanity and laid it on the cool glass surface. She sat on the small stool and stared at it, then at herself in the mirror. The object of her horror was a twelve-inch long plait of silky raven hair, tied at the end with a white velvet bow. Violet picked it up and held it at her head as her haunted reflection peered back at her. It was exactly the same. If Violet hadn't swept the hair into the bin at her flat herself, she would have sworn this plait was her very own.

Horrified, she rolled the plait in a silk scarf and shoved it into her bag. The clock on her dresser read 7 p.m. The Rucastle's had gone on a week-long holiday three days ago, allowing her to do the same. With nowhere else to go, Violet remained at the house along with Mrs. Toller. She had decided to take advantage of the time and settle in. It had been almost two months in her position and she had yet to completely unpack. She had also thought about perhaps getting to know the housekeeper a bit better, but the woman was never around. The only time Violet caught a glimpse of her was when she headed to the kitchen for breakfast—Mrs. Toller already halfway up the stairs to the west wing, cleaning supplies in hand.

Violet threw a change of clothes and a few pairs of underwear into the bag. She found her mobile on the dresser and made easy work of finding his name, after all, it was one of the seven contacts she had.

_Will be round in an hour, are you available? VH_

Violet did not wait for a response. She slipped into her coat and put a wool hat on her head. Draping the bag across her front, she pocketed the mobile and exited her room.

Violet ran down the stairs, calling out for the housekeeper, but no one replied. She headed out the side door, realizing it was unlocked, and instead of walking down the drive to the bus stop, she took a look along the grounds. Mrs. Toller was with her back to the house, slouched beneath a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Mrs. Toller?" The woman jumped slightly and turned around. Her face was deeply wrinkled and her eyes were weathered, underscored by layers of bags drooping into her cheeks.

"Yeah?"

Violet extended her hand. "Mrs. Toller, I believe we met briefly once before, I'm Violet Hunter, Jeffrey's nanny."

The woman kept puffing on her cigarette. "Yeah. D'ya need something?"

Violet dropped her hand and placed it in her pocket.

"Well, I just wanted to let you know I'm leaving until the family returns. Originally I had meant to stay, but something—"

"I ain't need to know."

"Right," Violet continued, struggling to keep the smile on her face. "I'm letting you know in case Mr. Rucastle returns and wonders where I've gone. I'm able to be reached by my mobile, if you'd let him know."

"Yeah. Ain't no business a mine." With that the woman turned her back and continued smoking.

Violet turned on her heel and jogged to the bus stop, a couple miles down from the drive of Copper Beeches. When she reached it she plunged her hand into her pocket to retrieve her phone and check the time. 7:27. Sighing in relief, she leaned against the signpost, only a few minutes until the last bus for the night was going to roll by. She noticed she had a new message.

_Door is open. SH_

It was close to 9 p.m. by the time Violet traced the shining brass numbers of 221 Baker Street with the tips of her fingers. The buses were slow, the traffic was unpredictable, and the closest the last bus would bring her was a mile south of this building. A few minutes into the walk, London did as London does best, and a downpour broke out of the clear night sky. Tired and soaked, Violet made to push the door open with the last of her strength, only to have it open unexpectedly for her. She nearly fell into the person on the other side.

Luckily, his reflexes far surpassed her own, and he had already reached out to steady her. Too exhausted to greet him, she merely groaned as he snatched the heavy bag from her shoulder.

"This way, Miss Hunter," he said casually as he ascended up the stairs. Violet nodded and followed him sluggishly.

He dropped her bag by the couch and she collapsed upon it. Her knee began to tremble nervously as the adrenaline that pumped through her veins began to subside. She began to drift into her thoughts, oblivious to where she was or who else was with her when a warm teacup was placed in her shaky hands. She looked up at the kind soul that put it there, the pale skin stretched over the sharpest cheekbones she had ever seen. She saw the blue-green eyes consider her curiously and the dark curls that almost obscured their view. She felt a warmness in her face and was unable to stop the red tint from blooming on her cheeks when she realized she was staring.

"I, uh, I...thank you, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was hoarse from the journey but still held dignity.

"Take your time," he sauntered back to the kitchen and disappeared from view. "The bathroom is down the hall if you'd like a warm bath, at least a change of clothes. What on earth made you take the bus?"

His voice was clear and relaxed. It was as if they were picking up a conversation they had started years ago. She could count the times they met on one hand, yet the familiarity was unlike anything she had ever felt before. Before responding she drained the cup of tea and set it on the table beside her.

"Yes," she controlled her voice as she did so many times before, masking the anxiety she felt. "I'll only be a moment."

He poked his head out from the kitchen. "The next time you come, you'll take a proper cab. I will manage the expense."

She shook her head as she collected her things. "It's just rain, Mr. Holmes. I appreciate your gesture but it won't be necessary."

She surprised him. He stood looking at her—her frail figure dripping wet, but poised and standing upwards, a slight raise to her chin. She held a cool smile, but there was steely determination in her eyes. She was clearly frightened, and yet worked to disguise the emotion, placing practicality before her own feelings. Sherlock admired her.

"Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my older brother, who has an addiction to pastry and whom I despise."

A small laugh joined the exhale from her lips. Sherlock realized it pleased him.

"I'm sorry. I'll just be a few minutes, Sherlock, and thank you for seeing me at such short notice."

She noticed him give her a brief nod and made her way to the wooden door at the end of the hall. The bathroom, like the rest of the flat, held a smattering of objects. The medicine cabinet was covered and filled with drugs she had never heard of. She dropped her bag in the corner and locked the door, drawing hot water from the tap into the antique tub. She peeled the cold, wet clothes from her body and let them fall into piles on the floor. As she lowered herself into the steaming bath a sigh of relief escaped from her, as well as a few well-kept tears.

What was she doing? All her synapses were on fire, tired of telling her to return home and leave this. She hated the house, the people, the job. She had stayed because of her love of London, yet she never saw the city holed up in the estate. Her only lifeline being a man she read of in the papers who for some reason had offered to help, yet did not disclose why. She was being an idiot, and putting herself in danger, and worst of all, she was fully aware of it.

As she closed her leaking eyes she visualized cerulean staring back at her, brimming with intelligence, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. The effect he was having frightened her. She believed she was not able to feel such a rush for a single person—after all, she never had. But she was curious. The greatest affliction she suffered from—curiosity. The thing that kept her at Copper Beeches. The thing that kept her coming back to this mysterious man.

She changed into dry clothes and hung her wet ones over the lip of the tub. She looked at herself in the mirror and only one word came to mind: haggard. Her lack of food and sleep had worked its way into her skin, making her look gray. There was no makeup to help disguise the effects, and the severity of her blunt hair only seemed to magnify the imperfections on her face. Still, she smoothed out the bob, pinched her cheeks, and made it back to the living area.

He was working in the kitchen, not noticing her, but just as she made to turn away she saw a warm plate of food and tea at the seat beside him. It was untouched, and definitely not there before.

"I imagined you'd be hungry."

She took the seat and dug into the meal. "Did you make this?" she asked between mouthfuls of chicken pie.

"Courtesy of my landlady, Mrs. Hudson. How long has it been since you ate something?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she smiled playfully at him, and then caught her slip and brought her attention back to the food.

"I'm interested in the case, Violet." Sherlock pushed away from the table and gave her his full attention. She found it unnerving.

"I want to know what is hiding in that house. It is outside of police control so the only access point I have is you. I'm using you, and I know that by doing so I'm putting you in danger. Therefore any kindness I offer is recompense. I expect nothing else in return, you can be assured of that."

His statement caught her by surprise and she lowered her fork. "And all this time I thought I was using you."

Her statement was unexpected, she could see the surprise in his face. Before he answered she continued, "I want to make it very clear Sherlock, _you_ are not putting _me_ in any kind of danger. I may be your informant but I've stayed as long as I have for my own reasons. I also want to know what's in that house. If you were to drop the case tomorrow I would continue to stay. You owe me nothing."

He paused before responding. "I was under the impression you needed the job."

"I do," she pushed the plate away without finishing. "But without it I'll survive. I hate it, you know. But something there isn't right and I can't settle until I know what it is."

"In that case," Sherlock slid the plate back towards her. "Maybe we could come to some kind of agreement? Do away with this indebted business? Why don't we solve this as—" he lingered on the word, finding it difficult to pronounce.

"A team?" Violet completed the sentence for him with a laugh. "I didn't think you were the cooperative type?"

"Unlikely, I am aware. But since we've gotten this far, and you're holding a key piece of evidence, I thought it may be time to just admit that we're working together."

Her eyes widened and glanced swiftly to her bag. "How did you—" she stopped herself, smiling beside herself. "When will I learn that you already know everything? What was it that gave it away?"

Sherlock was goaded by her interest. "You took the bag with you, and then brought it back, all the time leaving it within eyesight. Someone as exhausted as you clearly are, my apologies Violet, would take what you needed and leave it. But there is something precious inside it. Something you didn't have when we met before, something that made you come here unexpectedly. Well, unexpected to you. I've been expecting you for the last few days."

"Really? So why didn't you just send a cab then?"

"I don't like to jump the gun. Besides, there's always a chance I'll be wrong."

"I'd very much like to see that." She made to get her bag, but Sherlock stopped her.

"I can show you, don't you want to see?" Her brow was furrowed in confusion.

"In the morning," he said quietly. "First, you desperately need sleep. I'll show you our guest bedroom."

"But aren't you curious?"

"All in good time. My good friend has taught me the value of a good night's rest. This way."


End file.
